E Is For Empty Eyes
by KeiranEmrys
Summary: Peter wonders why Sylar's eyes are always empty when they fight; he wonders why the other man never fights back. PeterSylar slash. Pylar.


There's something about the way that Sylar stops fighting and completely relaxes when Peter hits him that has Peter absolutely fascinated with the killer. He first noticed it the night at Kirby Plaza.

Sylar had fought tooth and nail to try to kill him, but the minute Peter's fist met his face, the fight left him. He could see it in Sylar's eyes: that empty look. And Sylar didn't even try to stop him as fist came down again and again. It confused Peter and intrigued him all at once.

The second time he noticed was the fight on the way to Pinehurst. They'd been under the illusion that they were brothers at the time, but it went the same as Kirby Plaza. Peter threw himself at Sylar, kept hitting him and attacking him. Sylar did nothing. He sat there, slumped against the wall, taking everything Peter dished out. He didn't raise a hand to defend himself, just looked up at Peter with those empty brown eyes.

It didn't confuse Peter anymore, at least, not in the way it used to. After the first time he'd wondered why it happened at all. He'd wondered why the hell Sylar wouldn't fight back. Now he just wanted to know about the eyes; why every time Peter hit him, the pain wouldn't register in those brown orbs. They were empty; they had nothing—not pain, not hate—nothing.

And Peter hated that. He was once a nurse—now a paramedic. That coupled with his natural ability gave him an innate empathy towards others. He felt keenly the emotions of others, and the idea that someone could be so empty of feeling disturbed him greatly.

And that brings us to now, the third time. It's the same as the others. Peter slams Sylar against the wall repeatedly. The other man does nothing, just takes it, slumping between the wall and Peter's fists balled in his shirt; he hangs there like a rag-doll.

Their faces are close, mere centimeters from touching noses, close enough that Peter can see the emotions fading steadily from those beautiful brown eyes once again. No, not brown. Sylar's pupils had dilated, making his eyes black.

Whether it was from the lack of light in the apartment or from some other reason, Peter didn't want to think about that—he couldn't. If he started thinking down that path he'd—_'No, pull yourself together Pete. Its Sylar damn it!'_ He shakes the other man hard, like he wants to do to himself.

"Why don't you fight back?" he growled at Sylar's blank face. "Fucking fight back damn you!"

There's a flash of something in Sylar's eyes. Finally. But it is gone as quickly as it came.

"Fight back? What for? I told you once Peter. I am not going to kill you. I don't need anything from you anymore," he whispered back defiantly, taunting the empath.

Peter rears back as if he'd been slapped, which doesn't make sense—why should he care that Sylar doesn't need anything from him? Yet for some reason the words hurt. Peter says nothing, can't say anything really. What do you say to that? Sylar sees this and barks out a hollow laugh.

"That's your problem with me isn't it? You want me to need you." The killer laughs again, his voice, however, is devoid of mirth. "No, you need me to need you."

And there it is. The one thing Peter has been wanting since he'd started thinking about Sylar. A streak of smugness light's the killer's dark eyes and all Peter can do is glare; he doesn't say anything because he knows, and Sylar knows, that Sylar is right.

The anger Peter felt towards the other man dissipates and becomes internal. He pulls away swiftly, turning his back on Sylar and glare still firmly on his face. His anger has a new target now: himself. He's angry at himself for not seeing it; angry that Sylar had to spell it out for him. His self-loathing builds. His attraction to the other man—something that never should have happened—is too obvious to ignore any longer.

It isn't as simple as lust; lust he could push to the side and easily ignore. This is an infatuation, a goddamned obsession. Peter curses his empathy his capacity for love. He doesn't want it in that moment, but he may very well need it.

It is with this realization that the anger disappears entirely, leaving nothing but resignation and wariness. He swallows thickly and looks over to Sylar who is still leaning against the wall with that smug look on his face. Peter keeps eyes contact as he speaks; he want to see emotions play through those dark brown orbs once again.

"You're right."

Peter slams himself against the serial killer, forcing their lips together in a bruising kiss. His hands come up to hold Sylar's head. The older man stands stock-still, not participating in the harsh kiss, but not pulling away either. Peter opens his eyes to look into Sylar's. There are emotions in them, so much emotion. Surprise. Confusion. Fear. Arousal. Acceptance.

Simultaneously their eyes close and Sylar leans forward, arms wrapping around Peter's waist. The kiss deepens. Peter tugs them both towards the bedroom. They spend the whole night there, forgetting the rest of the world. The world could go fuck itself; as long as there's something in Sylar's eyes, Peter couldn't give a damn if the world was ending.


End file.
